


sky, god, girl (pick out the one who doesn't belong)

by makemelovely



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-17 13:25:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18966130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makemelovely/pseuds/makemelovely
Summary: Dawn, during and after Buffy's death.





	sky, god, girl (pick out the one who doesn't belong)

**Author's Note:**

> title from advent by Rae Armantrout

There’s something sticky about grief. Maybe it’s the heat of the summer, the way the air slicks against her skin and the sun burns her fair skin. The way the breeze doesn't do much to the sweat prickling along her upper lip because the air conditioning is broken and Tara can't fix it and Willow reads the manual aloud but doesn't do anything and Buffy could kick at it until it made that weird shuddering sound and started up again.

 

Buffy could do anything.

 

Dawn swallows roughly, adjusting the jean skirt that was her sister’s but is now hers because dead girls can't complain about hand-me-down clothes that they aren't done wearing yet.

 

* * *

 

She has nightmares of a god looking down on her, red lips twisted up in a sneer. She dreams of falling and falling and falling like Alice down the rabbit hole except there is no floating safely down. She imagines bolts of lightning dancing along her skin, the smell of burning flesh and shocks burning through her bones.

 

She dreams off burning up, her blood spilling out from her eyes and ears and nose, a river of red that she can't stop. She thinks that maybe she did fall from that hellish tower, and in the morning when she wakes up she’ll remember that she did fall from the tower.

 

_ She’s me. The monks made her out of me. _

 

(It was always going to be Summer’s blood that was spilled. There was no way around it.)

  
  


* * *

 

Ben into Glory into Ben into Glory into Ben into Glory into BenintoGloryintoBenintoGloryintoBen-

 

A loop of lies and power curving up and around her spine, creeping around her throat and clinging tight.

 

* * *

 

Dawn gets dressed, and she wears Buffy’s favorite necklace every day, and when she wears sandals she wears the anklet their mother had given Buffy for her fourteenth birthday that she wore for three weeks straight.

 

“You look nice,” Tara smiles at her, eyes flicking down to the wink of metal illuminated by the sunlight pouring in through the window.

 

“Thanks,” Dawn bobs her head awkwardly.  _ I’m wearing the remnants of my family destroyed.  _ She doesn't say.

 

_ I want to carry their ghosts with me everywhere, always.  _ She doesn't say.

 

_ This is my penance for being the key, my attempt to make up for the death that follows me as I bloom to life. This is my apology for stealing the air they should be breathing, for taking the life from them and using it to exist as I am.  _ She doesn't say.

 

“I thought it looked cute.” She says instead.

 

Her silence swallows around the guilt acting as a shield to swallow her whole.

 

* * *

 

Xander drives her to school, music blaring and red eyes focused blankly on the road.

 

Dawn doesn't start any conversations, but it’s not like Xander’s making and effort either.

 

Maybe it’s the act of opening her mouth to cut through the dreary tone of their car rides that feels like it's too much for her.

 

Maybe it should be Buffy in her place.

 

(It  _ should  _ be Buffy in her place, but she already knew that.)

 

* * *

 

Glory cuts along her ribs and hips, and the pain sparks against her skin like a burn. She smiles, nasty red lips curving into something villainous, something awful and cruel. A hideous pleasure sparks to life in her eyes, and the sick gleam in her eyes matches the awful scowl carving into her face which is very reminiscent of the ritual dagger carving into Dawn’s own skin.

 

Glory leans back, watches blood start to pool. The ropes are tight around Dawn’s body, and she imagines snakes curling all around her, hissing and tightening as they please.

 

There's a sound from down below (way,  _ way  _ down below, Dawn thinks). Glory groans, but there's still that glow of victory clinging to her skin like some kind of cloak. A jacket to keep her all warm at night in, like, Hell or whatever.

 

Dawn maybe sees blonde hair gleaming like a beacon, and her voice is hoarse even before she starts screaming. “Buffy! Buffy! I’m up here!” She’s desperate and frantic and the ropes are too tight and red is running over them and she feels cold and endless.

 

She’s stretched too thin, her fingertips brushing over every thing on this earth, and some things not on this earth. Her fingers brush through star dust and rocks and the light blooming between her fingers as dawn pours through the sky like ink.

 

(Except there was never really a dawn at all, was there?)

 

Red blooms underneath her eyelids, color rushing over skin like the aurora borealis is right here in her backyard. Her head tips back, eyes opening just a little, just to sneak a peek of the brilliantly colors that must be glowing and pulsing in the sky.

 

Her eyelids are almost shut, and her long dark lashes flutter slightly. The sky is black, and everything feels sucked out and hollow.

 

She feels cheated. She feels like something's been stolen from her, but the ache blossoming in her chest steals all of her attention. She never even considered they were connected.

 

She feels like her fingers (brushing against planets, stars,  _ galaxies)  _ are turning everything gold. She swallows once, and tries to push past the dizziness of feeling colors and not seeing them.

 

There's a clanging noise, and she feels blood dripping down past her knees, leaving a trail of fire burning behind it. Buffy pushes to her, and Dawn thinks that somebody was here before, but there's a blurriness in her mind that she can't push past. Buffy holds her, cool fingers pressing firmly against her elbows and  _ this is what being grounded feels like,  _ Dawn thinks.  _ This is what not being infinite feels like. _

 

Buffy’s grip strengthens for a moment, and that's when Dawn realizes a portal has opened.

 

Brilliant swirling colors, and electricity dances along Dawn’s skin because this is  _ hers,  _ and she's never had something just hers. She wants, desperately, to drown in vivid colors that linger on her skin like a dress tailor made for her that isn't  _ this  _ one.

 

A choice that she makes instead of a sacrifice she was created for.

 

Dawn feels like she's flying towards fate with every step she takes, cold metal pressing against the delicate flesh of a key crammed into the shape of a girl.

 

But Buffy’s hand is on her shoulder, Buffy is moving forward, Buffy is flying and Dawn has always wanted to fly.

 

She looks peaceful, hair floating like she's swimming, and pain flashes briefly across her face. Electricity sparks up and down her body, racing like the pulse Dawn forgot she has.

 

A million things run through Dawn’s mind, memories and thoughts darting around hand-in-hand.

 

_ Buffy, come carry me. Carry me, Buffy. _

 

_ Buffy, come save me. Save me, Buffy. _

 

_ Buffy, take me with you. Take me with you, Buffy. _

 

_ Buffy, die for me. Die for me, Buffy. _

 

Buffy dies, and something deep within Dawn says  _ That should've been me. That was mine. That was my destiny, my fate. That was for  _ me.

 

Dawn swallows, feels a war encasing her body. Grief snarls at the galaxies clinging to her eyelashes like ghosts, and Dawn feels supernovas collide in her bones.

 

_ Buffy, live for me. Live for me, Buffy. _

 

* * *

 

This is what Dawn remembers:

 

The sky, endlessly stretching out behind her. A million possibilities.

 

A god, and her wickedly delighted red smile. Glory and the cruelty and careless selfishness that she wears like eyeliner.

 

And her. The way her fingers stretched out, an infinite span as the stuff of universes ran in her veins.


End file.
